


Write Your Name Across My Skin

by AmbroseRivers



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Guilt, Love, M/M, Mistakes, Other, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1991694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmbroseRivers/pseuds/AmbroseRivers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a mistake. John knew that now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Write Your Name Across My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank my Beta... The lovely iolre for editing this for me! :3 She helped me push myself to get over my fear of posting so without her... there would be no story! Thanks for your help and if you guys, have read her work- go check it out!
> 
> Let me know what you think! I hope you enjoy.

John knew it was a mistake the moment he felt Sholto press a hand to sweat slick skin to force him to arch his back. There was a thin barrier between them, a single piece of latex, and the blogger's stomach lurched with Sholto’s sudden thrust. John’s fingers scrabbled for purchase as Sholto’s left hand clamped tightly over his hip and his other dug into John’s scalp and tugged hard to keep him upright on his knees. If he didn’t have finger-shaped indents on the slopes of his hips when he made it home, he would be surprised. Sholto thrust again and John moaned at the jolt of red-hot fire singing through his veins, down his body. His toes curled helplessly in the rough sheets.

It was wrong.

Sholto's hands were too broad on his hips, too warm on overheated skin. His breath was all wrong, too - soft whooshes on the inhale and not enough of a rumbling growl the moment the lungs expelled their waste. Sholto’s skin was too tan, too rough. The callouses were wrong, too - from guns and hard work instead of the bow of a violin.

Everything was too - too -  
"Watson." John startled at the gruff word. There was hesitation there, concern, and then thick fingers wrapped around John leaking cock and John whined, thoroughly distracted. How - what - when? He struggled to think, giving up when his mind blanked. Sholto’s hand slid down, milky droplets easing the way for his ruthless fingers. He keened as his prick was stroked, hips unwillingly canting into Sholto’s grip.

A glint of silver caught his eye. His wedding band - he should have taken it of. The engraving on the inside bit into him. Maybe the words would be branded into his skin. ‘For my John.’ He should have-

"Oh, yes!" The cry was ripped from his throat and bile tinted the words, tainting the crashing pleasure.  
The rough scrape of skin against his belly wasn’t the gentle glide of his beloved’s steady grip. The teeth-filled kisses on his shoulders left him feeling hollow as chapped lips avoided the star burst of skin that was usually shown so much affection.  
Of course. John flinched at the self-deprecating tone that had been absent at home as of late. He couldn’t help the rolling nausea as he pictured the eyes that captivated him. Those beautiful eyes.

He wouldn’t look back at Sholto. His fingers clenched in the bedsheets as the rhythm rocking his body became punishing - a testament to his resolve to control his nausea and enjoy the tight coil that was winding in his gut.  
This wasn’t who he was supposed to be with. It was wrong, all wrong and he hissed as the edge receded, desperate. He lowered his torso, whimpering, as Sholto hit his prostate.

He was a painting of contradictions - a reluctant participant but a participant nonetheless.  
"Such a good boy, Watson." Sholto's words caressed the shell of his ear and reminded him of the heat of that godforsaken desert so long ago. It was the hazy silhouette of silicate particles, John mused. He knew a mirage when he saw one. Slick digits swiped over the weeping tip of his glans. His head lolled back against the sheets. He was letting himself be blinded, wrapping himself up in an illusion from long ago. It wasn’t good to let himself go like this.

He knew that Sholto wouldn't stop until he said the words. His lips refused to shape them, refused to allow him to say ‘No’, or ‘Stop’. He needed this release. His eyes closed and he let his mind drift.

Smooth, violin-worn hands caressing his cheek... the flutter of that arrogant cupid’s bow pressing against his lips, mouthing the raised star burst on his shoulder...John couldn't...  
He couldn't...  
"Sherlock!" John lowered his head as his orgasm ripped through him, painting his belly, chest, and Sholto's hand with thick, creamy ribbons. His lips were pursed but his eyes were dry. His chest was on fire.  
Sherlock’s name was the security of the cool metal of a gun in his hand, a fresh cuppa after a long day, the feeling of adrenaline coursing through his veins, a brushing of legs on the couch. It was soft smiles and a firm clasp on the back of a wiry neck, curls tickling his palm. It was Sherlock's murmured, "I love you" as he slid the ring onto John’s finger, their promise to be together for the rest of their life.  
The orgasm that was still pulsing through his body was the taste of betrayal, the gun turned in on himself and ripping his flesh open to let blood spill onto the sheets. It was watching Sherlock's ever-changing eyes widen and flash with pain, it was watching the man he loved stepping up to the edge of that building, it was the insults hurled in anger and hurt.  
It was a mistake.  
John hated how his body seemed to be turned to jelly and how deep Sholto was still buried in him. The fact that he had called his ex-lover in the first place.

He hated Sherlock for offering him permission to go somewhere else - to someone else - because Sherlock didn't feel the need to have sex.

John hated Sholto for accepting his invitation.

But most of all -  
He hated himself for opening his legs for someone other than the person who truly mattered. Hated that he couldn't stick to the schedule Sherlock proposed. 

Hated himself because.  
Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock...  
His ridiculous husband was the only one he wanted and this...  
Was...  
A mistake.


End file.
